Coming to the Table

by Chris Koellhoffer, April 7, 2024

One of the elements that makes the resurrection stories so tender for me is also one of the most simple, the most common, the most universally shared: the symbolism of food.

There’s the very human question as Jesus appears to the disciples in Jerusalem, “Have you anything to eat?” (Luke 24:41) He’s offered a piece of baked fish which he ate in front of them. Eating, enjoying a meal, such basic actions, yet so reassuring to those who watched it. “Have you anything to eat?” Jesus asks today. He’s really asking: what nourishes you? What sustains you for the long haul? For what do you hunger?

The bread of our despair, now become the bread of our hope. “Stay with us, for it is nearly evening and the day is almost over.” (Luke 24:29) When we’re exhausted by long labor, anxiety, illness, chronic pain, a disappointing day, an overwhelming sense of failure, or the pressing needs of ministry, there are few moments more evocative, more appreciated than stepping into a kitchen where the aroma of savory cooking fills the air. We intuitively understand that all that’s required of us is showing up and sitting down in good company. To simply be, to bask in the welcome of community, of friendship, of kin. How easily, in those moments, we recognize the Holy One in the breaking of the bread of our lives. How quickly, in those times, our hearts burn within us as we find our flagging hope propped up, even restored, by the flame of undaunted faith and audacious hope.

Another time, another place, another very human post-resurrection scene. A charcoal fire and fish. “Bring some of the fish you just caught” (John 21:9) is the risen Jesus’ invitation to the weary disciples who had been fishing all night without a nibble until Jesus advised them to cast their nets to the right side of the boat. With a haul so large their boat almost sank, the disciples count the exact number: one hundred fifty-three big ones, any fisher folks’ dream come true. As they near the shore, they hear the words we all long to have uttered in our direction, “Come, have breakfast.” Or lunch. Or dinner. Or any meal prepared by the hands and heart of someone who loves and cares for us. The invitation to “Come, have breakfast” is ours today as well. Come, and be near to the Holy One. Come, spend some time in gentle prayer and quiet listening.

Here in the northern hemisphere as we’ve said good-bye to Lent and are about to say farewell to a lingering winter season, I sometimes feel like a hibernating bear waking up from an extended slumber. Like my ursine neighbors, I find within myself an appetite that is fierce and urgent—to consume food that nourishes and sustains, to deepen the contemplative spirit of my dormant season, to walk in the company of others who are also rooting around for signs of rising. May we enter these post-resurrection days with a spirit of thankfulness for the limitless ways the Holy One feeds us and we in turn nourish one another. 

I leave you with this poem by the luminous Joy Harjo, speaking of the kitchen table through “Perhaps the World Ends Here.”

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

Takeaway
Sit in stillness with the Holy One.
You may wish to place before you a loaf of bread or an image of a meal or of something that sustains you.
Reflect on who or what nourishes you at this time in your life.
Ask that all those in our world who suffer the pangs of starvation will receive the sustenance they need to live.
Hold these images with tenderness, and bow to the holy within you.

Featured Image: Stefan Vladimirov, Unsplash

NOTE:
Please remember in your prayer the Dominican Sisters of Grand Rapids, Michigan, with whom I expected to pray, reflect, and learn from their wisdom at a guided retreat beginning April 14.
Thank you for your kind words and messages of prayerful support as I continue to heal from surgery for a fractured wrist.

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